THE NOT SO PERFIDIOUS ALBION.

3:45 PM, Thursday; August/19/1847.

At a Carriage-Works in the town of Chard, Somerset, England.

John Stringfellow hastily wiped grease and dirt off his hands using a somewhat frazzled and stained rag, the only one immediately available; which he speedily tucked out of sight
upon use in his leather-apron pouch and thrust out his right hand in sincere and warm greeting, smiling appreciatively as he firmly clasped Professor Valcour’s extended hand and gave it a vigorous shake.
“Greetings! I am John Stringfellow, I have been expecting you. I am delighted to see that both of you have arrived in good health. Your timing is excellent. It is about quarter-to-four now. Plenty of time to show you about.” John Stringfellow remarked, expressing genuine delight, though in a typically subdued English manner. “Until you sent that letter, two months ago, informing me of your desire to visit me today, I had not expected to see such a distinguished and renowned visitor as yourself, a professor of aerial navigation at that, set foot in my humble workshop. Is this your first visit to this part of England, Mister Valcour?”
Charles Valcour nodded, “It is
my first ever visit to England, Monsieur – ahhh – Mister Stringfellow. I promise you it won’t be my last.” He paused to gesture at his wife beside him. “Both of us departed Bristol on one of those steam trains, a little before noon today, getting off at a town called Taunton where we were able to get a carriage and driver to take us to this town. It took us an hour to get here from that place. I applaud you Englishmen for the excellent quality of your Macadam roads.”
Paying no apparent attention to the sincere praise, the 48-year-old British craftsman immediately shifted his attention to Charlotte Valcour, flickering her a smile that was more generous. “And you must be Madame Valcour.” he commented, as he slowly bowed his head, leaning over to plant a kiss on her extended gloved hand; part of his well-trimmed muttonchops and connecting mustache making contact with the glove’s silk fabric. “Thank you for gracing me and my staff with your visit. We do not have many women, especially ones as lovely as yourself, setting foot on these premises. Is this your first trip to England as well?”
There was a hint of a patronizing grin as she politely shook her head,
“Thank you for your compliment, Mister Stringfellow. And you have such gentle-looking eyes. and I compliment you on keeping your wavy graying hair well-groomed in such a work site as this.” She said,
throwing out some flippant praise,
stifling an urge to giggle. “No, this is not my first visit. I attended
a Quaker sponsored academy for women over twenty-years-ago, north of London, for seven years. But I learned to speak your language earlier. It was my mother who taught me the basics of English when I was quite young, before my ability to speak it was – refined, as you might say, at the Newington Academy.
That was the name of the school.”
Charles interrupted, giving Charlotte a wink doing so, “And it is my beloved Charlotte here who taught me how to speak, read and write English – as you say – fluently.
And, Oh! I must correct you, Mister Stringfellow. I am not a professor
of aerial navigation as you claim. There is no such academic position anywhere – yet. You must be thinking of my – somewhat successful helicoptere demonstration eight-years-ago and my paid lectures and writings about it. You must have assumed that it was the result of an nonexistent academic office that I held.” Professor Valcour ending his explanation with an insincere scolding smile.
Mister Stringfellow politely pondered both their statements for a moment, then quipped, “I see. That does explain a lot. Both of you do speak English quite well, I do say. And as far as matters of aerial navigation? One has to agree that the powered – helicoptere ascent was quite an extraordinary feat, Professor. It certainly encouraged me and my former partner, Mister Henson to pursue an alternative means of ascending and traveling through the air with the attempted development of the Aerial Steam Carriage, starting seven-years-ago, until he left for America last year. We did consider using an acid-gas engine, like the one you patented and used in your ascending-machine, I might add, but Mister Henson turned down the idea, preferring to rely on steam.” Mister Stringfellow sighed, frowning in disappointment, “but of course you know about that failed project,
Professor, as indicated in your
initial correspondence.”
His expression changed, realizing
his failure of etiquette.
“Oh how inconsiderate of me! I do ask you to come over to a table and some chairs that I have set up for this occasion on the other-side of this shop, in a less cluttered part.
I have some tea brewing and some small, ham and egg sandwiches arrayed on a tray that my wife prepared. So you see that we English are not all a perfidious nor an inhospitable lot, as some of your countrymen imagine. That said, I gather you did not have opportunity to partake of lunch since you departed Bristol this morning?” he inquired.
Charles and Charlotte nodded, smiling in appreciation and relief at the gracious offer. “Thank you,” Charles gratefully uttered, “We accept your offer. Both of us indeed are famished.”

Professor Valcour and his wife sated their hunger and thirst at the table prepared for them, resting themselves
also as John Stringfellow expounded on his plans and the projects that he was working on. Having had their fill of the offered tea and sandwiches, the two guests were subsequently escorted around the work-premises by their host, who introduced them
to his employees, and pointed out and described things of interest on site to the pair, as he had promised. He went as far as to show his two visitors a remarkably ‘light’, 192-pound-weight twelve horsepower steam-engine that he was working on. The talented Englishman then took them a little further and showed the two a relatively ‘small’ winged-craft that he had constructed.
It was a little over ten-feet-long, with a wingspan that matched, and a birdlike horizontal fantail fitted to it.
“That small steam-engine that you saw will soon be mounted on to this
and fitted with a three-foot-diameter
propeller.” he cheerfully announced.
John Stringfellow swept his arm up and across, drawing attention to the lengthy interior of the workshop-hanger. There was a long rope suspended above that was stretched across the length of the building, dangling lead-weights suspended at each end.
“I will install a tallowed platform near one end of the rope, where the experimental craft and its engine will be temporarily mounted. And a pair of large rectangular hoops will hook the craft to the rope that will guide this craft down the length of this building. Hopefully the attached engine will produce sufficient power to generate sustained net lift.” John yearningly explained, “I should have it ready to test, early next year. As I have informed you already, I am now starting work on a larger version with a twenty-foot wingspan that could be fitted with that engine of yours, Professor, which I do hope will have sufficient power to achieve powered flight at an outdoor location for at least half-a-minute. Both projects do take up a good deal of my time.
And of course I still have to make carriages here, and bobbins too, to
earn a living.” he wearily confessed.
His two guests glanced at each other puzzled, silently mouthing the word “bobbins?”, shaking their heads in ignorance, then immediately dismissed it as of no consequence.
John Stringfellow followed up with
a question: “How much power did
your helicoptere engine achieve, Professor, if I may ask?”
Cautioning, Charles carefully retorted, “There are variables to consider, but I have estimated that my acid-gas engine managed to produce over thirty-four of your English horsepower, according to my calculations, when the internal pressure reached its highest point.
I don’t know if that is helpful. I also honestly doubt that half-a-minute of powered flight can be achieved using my engine as you suppose. But you are welcome to it. My offer does stand.”
Not waiting for a response, and giving the nearby 10-foot-long winged-craft another look-over, he suddenly turned in realization to his English host, and asked, “The rope? Is that why you do not have a vertical fin attached to the horizontal fantail on this apparatus, Mister Stringfellow? The rope would be a hindrance, I assume? I assure you that you will need a vertical stabilizing fin, as well as the horizontal fantail for the free-flying
machine that you plan to send up in a future outdoor experiment.
I can tell you that we have a French Navy officer named Ensign le Bris who is even now designing and building what will be a rocket-propelled winged-carriage. And from his investigations and experiments, using the artificial-wind tunnel that the French Navy now possesses, he has learned that he must not only fit rigid horizontal and vertical stabilizing-fins
on his winged-carriage, he must also attach rudders to them so that the soaring winged-carriage can maneuver effectively and safely.”
Looking rather rueful, John Stringfellow replied, “I do wish I had the funds to afford such an artificial-wind tunnel with its associate machinery, or have access to the one that Sir George Cayley purchased from you seven-years-ago.
It would make my work progress that much more satisfactorily,” he softly moaned in regret, “but suffice it to say that this – craft that you see before you will not require the maneuverability, nor the superfluous stability, like that of the rocket-driven winged-carriage that you made mention of; nor like that of the gliding winged-carriage of Mister Cayley’s, since sustained lift and thrust are what I am pursuing with this present design and model, and the larger free-flying craft also. Maneuverability will be dealt with in a larger free-flying machine that I will design to carry a man aloft, perhaps three-years-hence – - – But regarding the intermediate unmanned free-flying machine I’m now developing? I now inform you in person that I agree to accept the offer you made; with the terms you proposed in the letter you sent. I do realize it will cost me quite a few Pounds Sterling to ship off the engine that you desire to Paris, which I have yet to show you. I will scrape up the funds however. I am a man of my word. I do suppose it will require quite a few Francs on your part to ship me the unique engine that you made.”
Charles hesitated. It was his wife who nudged him to respond.
“The acid-gas engine that I used on my helicoptere, eight-years-ago, has been kept in storage since then; except for a few months when it was put on display at the Industrial Exhibition in Paris, three-years-ago. I stand by my offer, but I cannot guarantee that it will function
again as well as you may like. Are you not concerned about it’s physical condition?”
The middle-aged Englishman mildly shook his head. “Are you concerned about the physical condition of my thirty-horsepower steam-engine that I’m offering you in the trade?” he retorted, “I know you are a man of integrity, Professor. We can seal this agreement now with a simple handshake, as far as I’m concerned.
Any damage incurred during transport can be repaired; or parts that may break can be replaced, should it come to that. And all I need from you, Professor, are the written instructions regarding the operation of that peculiar engine of yours.”
Professor Valcour gave his host an admiring look before reaching over and shaking Mr. Stringfellow’s hand.
“Then it is agreed.” the Englishman affirmed, “do follow me, and I will
show it to you. I too have kept my engine in storage, hopefully none-the-worse for wear – or rust. But that prospect doesn’t seem to trouble you.”

Complying with his host’s request, Charles Valcour once again accompanied the Englishman, briskly moving up to walk beside him, a curious expression playing across Charles’ face. Noting it, Mr. Stringfellow looking a little puzzled, asked, “Is there some matter or concern that you have yet to bring to my attention, Professor?”
Charles shrugged a little, replying,
“Perhaps it’s just my curiosity. In your letter replying to mine you mentioned that the – previously built steam-engine of yours that failed to send any large models of the Aerial Steam Carriage aloft could burn either naphtha or wood-spirits for fuel. You also gave me the engine’s dimensions and its power output. But you failed to inform me of its weight.” Charles
shot his host an inquisitive look,
eagerly anticipating an answer.
“It depends on how much water for steam you would use, and how much lubricant and fuel also. Together,
the weight does not exceed eight-hundred pounds. That’s a little more than twenty-six-pounds per horsepower. Not much good for trying to send winged-carriages aloft, as I can attest.” John Stringfellow sadly declared, “I wonder for what good purpose do you intend to employ the steam-engine that I offer you?”
Professor Valcour was a little coy with his answer, blurting out a somewhat vague reply. “I have some ideas that would require experimentation, and potential flying- vehicles may not be the only application. Have you heard or read that an older colleague and scientist from my alma mater, the Polytechnique, is now hard at work designing and building an engine that will use a
piston and cylinder, from a steam-engine, fitted with electric-spark devices to detonate mixtures of coal-gas and what you call air to produce reciprocating motion in the piston rod? His name is Professeur Poncelet. Have you heard of him?”
John Stringfellow stopped in his tracks, pausing to digest the stunning information.
“Yes, I’ve heard of that distinguished fellow. He has devised
an metric alternative to horsepower measurements, I understand. And he
has patented improved waterwheels,
some of which are being used in this country. But as far as converting steam piston and cylinders to use
the explosive power of ignited coal-gas and air mixtures? – - – Hmmm – - – I’ve had correspondence from Sir George Cayley where he has suggested that in the future there maybe engines that will use the combustion of naphtha or spirits in their cylinders to generate practical reciprocating motions. Do you think the future has come upon us a lot sooner than we supposed?” he queried.
Charles shook his head,
“In my opinion it will take another generation for such internal-combustion engines to become practical. But, speaking of
my friend, Sir George Cayley? I will write him again soon, suggesting that he offer you the use of the artificial-wind tunnel that I and my co-inventor sold him. I suspect you will have no great difficulty visiting him, with your nation’s excellent Macadam roads and steam railway links. – - – You should have witnessed the successful gliding flight of his winged carriage, less than two-weeks-ago, up north in
the Yorkshire hills!” Charles blithely enthused, “The artificial-wind tunnel was of great assistance in its development and design! My wife and I can attest to how beautiful and remarkable the gliding flight went! He hired an circus acrobat to come up from London to control and steer that gliding craft. Hiring the circus acrobat was my suggestion to him prior to that occasion.”

Nine Weeks Later…

Professor Valcour had little time to appreciate the remarkably compact steam-engine delivered to him that week. With so many commitments piling up: including lectures, science papers to write and preparing examinations for his science students at the College du France, Charles was compelled to keep the shipped hardware at his brother’s factory, discreetly tucked away in a
dank storage room there, unable to do anything with it for nearly five full years.
It didn’t help matters any when Professor Valcour used most of his remaining precious time in September and October to design, invent and make a small working model of what he called “a wind-steered windwheel”. That project, along with other distractions and responsibilities took so much of his time that it almost drove him to mental exhaustion in the final months of 1847.
However, he managed to obtain a patent on his invention in the month of December; the French patent office being the first to issue it.
The machine he invented consisted of rectangular ‘windmill’ blades fitted to the spokes of an axle collared by two metal-bands attached to opposite sides of a free
turning slip-ring, the rim of which was loosely secured to a wood-framed derrick by four flanged clasps. The windwheel’s axle had a projecting ‘U-shaped’ metal rod integrated at its midpoint, fitted snugly between the slip-ring, serving as an attachment-point for a short reciprocating crank-rod, itself attached by a pivot-pin to a longer vertically mounted crank-rod that was fastened to a piston fitted tightly inside a pumping cylinder at the bottom.
A vertically-mounted fantail was attached to the slip-ring on top to allow the wind to steer the spinning windwheel into it, to optimize the machine’s performance. The one-thirtieth scale model he made was successfully tested that November in an artificial-wind tunnel in the presence of some of his colleagues, along with a witnessing patent official, hastening the patent process for him.
His friend, George Marchand suggested some improvements, recommending that the derrick be designed for easy assembly, disassembling and transport to allow a full-scale working version to be made speedily available where ever it was needed.
George also recommended that a number of those portable machines be built and made available to help pump water out of low-laying floodplains, such as those in the Cotentin Peninsula, which were frequently inundated with water after lengthy spells of heavy rain.
Professor Valcour’s brother Henri was called upon to build and assemble a full-size working prototype in early 1848. The invention proved popular, especially across the Atlantic, shortly after Charles obtained a patent for it in the United States of America, at a time not long after the American Union admitted the State of Texas, and the territory of California, along with other former Mexican lands, with their extensive dry and semi-arid regions.

Charles Valcour’s friend and colleague, Professor Jean-Victor Poncelet was also issued a patent in the final months of 1847, having completed and tested a working model of his coal-gas consuming, piston-and-cylinder internal combustion engine.
Some French newspapers went as far as to claim that ‘the end of the era of steam was at hand’. Professor Poncelet was far more realistic, legitimately arguing that the engine that he made was too noisy, immobile, grossly inefficient and underpowered; spewing large quantities of asphyxiating fumes, and lacked reliability and endurance
as demonstrated when his engine overheated, causing his engine’s piston to seize more than once.
In 1848, Jean-Victor Poncelet
tackled some of the problems, inventing and adding a water-jacket to the engine cylinder to keep it from overheating. He also designed and invented a hollow piston-rod that could hold pressurized lubricating oil to be dispensed through capillary-tubes in the piston to sustain lubrication in the space between the piston rings.
He even modified a wagon, equipping it with one of his engines, accompanied by a coal-baking
“box” added to produce the necessary coal-gas for the fuel. The experimental horseless carriage covered a distance of over two kilometers in its one and only trail-run in July of that year. Then all further efforts along those lines by the distinguished professor and engineer ceased: Professor Jean-Victor Poncelet was appointed that summer as the new “Commandant-General” of the Ecole Polytechnique, Professor Valcour’s, and his alma mater. But before he took up the duties and responsibilities of directing and administering that institution of higher learning, he applied for one final patent that year: a cooling water-jacket designed for rocket-motor nozzles.
As far as internal-combustion engine development went? It would be up to others in the coming years
to bring it to practical fruition.

Across the English Channel, the ingenious English mechanic and carriage-maker, John Stringfellow likewise found himself far too busy to do much with the “gift” sent his way in the exchange agreement made with Professor Valcour; unable to do anything with it well into 1848. The acid-gas engine delivered to his shop, received only eight days before the compact steam-engine that he sent in the mutual trade arrived in Paris, sat unused in a corner of the lengthy carriage-works building in Chard for months, ignored and neglected as Mr. Stringfellow obsessively pursued the development of his 10-foot wingspan
flying-machine in his spare time, with the aid of some of his employees, leaving little time to work on the larger free-flying version of his “aerial craft” intended to be fitted with that exotic engine Charles sent him.
The smaller flying-craft was finally fitted with the custom-built 12 horsepower steam-engine; the one he had proudly shown off to Charles and Charlotte; having the entire thing assembled and connected in the final weeks of March, 1848. The completed machine was then carefully hoisted and mounted on top of a greased platform, after which the winged-craft’s large rectangular ‘hoops’ were hooked onto the elevated tallow-coated rope, depressing the lengthy line with the added weight.
And just before 7:00 PM, on a Tuesday, the 4′th of April, 1848,
John Stringfellow fired up the alcohol burner on the machine’s lightweight steam-engine and less than half-an-hour later, its propeller spinning vigorously, the winged-contraption was liberated from its restraining-hook on the greased platform and was instantly thrust forward, further depressing the rope it was hooked onto for a few seconds after clearing the elevated mount, only to find itself rising once more; the weighted-rope guiding it bowing up and straightening as a result.
The powered flying-machine’s rectangular hoops were seen developing a growing gap above the rope in the machine’s last 30 feet of powered flight before it barreled into a restraining fish-net deployed at the far end of the building, which brought the craft’s progress to a swift halt.
John Stringfellow and four of his fellow workers broke free of their typical English reserve and loudly declared their triumph with obvious glee.
Mr. Stringfellow’s machine had become the first heavier-than-air fixed-winged aircraft to achieve
sustained powered flight, albeit under confined and restrained conditions.
Sir George Cayley wrote, congratulating him, offering the services of his artificial-wind tunnel
to help his fellow aviation pioneer test models of future winged-craft he intended to make.
John Stringfellow accepted the offer and took the opportunity to visit
his esteemed fellow Englishmen up in Yorkshire that June. The two-week-long visit proved most fruitful. When he returned to Chard, John found a letter waiting for him.
It was from Charles Valcour. The
youthful professor also extended his congratulations to the Englishman
and added a welcome suggestion: recommending that the planned free-flying winged-craft that now had Mr. Stringfellow’s undivided attention be fitted with lightweight skids, instead of iron-wheels, to reduce weight and flight-drag, and to safely land and brake the flying-machine upon its return to earth. Professor Valcour also advised that the skids be fitted into greased flanged-rails to facilitate the ground-level acceleration of the “aerial craft” prior to the start of its ascent.
Accepting the advice, but realizing that the operational time-limits imposed by the acid-gas engine on his free-flying machine necessitated
a brief ground-speed buildup over a
short distance, dramatically limiting the estimated length of the acceleration-track that would be set up somewhere nearby in Somerset County for the experimental flight, he began to ponder the idea of using a wood-frame structure, with heavy falling-weights, ropes and pulley-wheels to greatly boost the initial acceleration of the winged-craft along the short length of the proposed flanged-track.
Redoubling his efforts, starting the first week of that July, it took Mr. Stringfellow, and his fellow workers, another 14 months to assemble and prepare the 20-foot-wingspan craft and its integrated acid-gas engine. Then there was the matter of the flanged iron-rails, ties, the framed falling-weight “catapult”, and a site needed near Chard to attempt the flight. As work progressed on John Stringfellow’s latest “flying-machine”, the British public’s interest in the project grew. With the growing publicity and support, there came donations; not all of it in the form of money. A chemical firm in London
shipped a large quantity of “muriatic acid” at no cost. A quarry offered a suitable-size block of limestone.
There was also prize-money put up.
The publisher of the “The Times
of London” newspaper issued a challenge, offering a prize of 100 Pounds Sterling to John Stringfellow if his “aerial machine” could achieve powered flight lasting at least half-a-minute, covering a distance of greater than 500 yards through the air, with an bonus of 50 Pounds Sterling also assured if the craft were to ascend to a measured and verified height of at least 30 feet above the level from which the machine started at.
The prize-money proved to be an attractive incentive, but it was the money sent as donations from across the British Isles, as well as the other
items offered and sent, that sustained and pushed the project; helping with the frequent budget shortfalls as well.
The financial gifts mailed to the carriage-works in Chard in the first half of 1849 alone amounted to a sum of just over thirty-six Pounds Sterling. John Stringfellow was touched and encouraged by the support. His wife graciously wrote back to every donor, thanking them one and all. As the summer of 1849 wore on and the British flying-machine neared completion, the public throughout the British Isles eagerly awaited its debut. But it was the French Navy that ‘stole the show’ as the summer of 1849 drew to a close…

———————————-

THE FAMILY BUSINESS; STRONG AND LIGHT.

Shortly After 7:00 PM, Wednesday; July/02/1845.

A Converted Lecture-Hall Stage at the College de France, Paris.

“Just a few more minutes, Monsieur Deburau. Please continue to hold that pose.” Professor Valcour calmly pleaded,
“I realize that your body must be stiff and aching from all these long hours of posing. I do earnestly thank you for your patience and perseverance. We are almost done.” he confidently assured him.
As the gradually fading glare of limelight continued to illuminate him against the backdrop of a black satin curtain, the famous French pantomimist, Jean-Gaspard Deburau
silently continued to endure his agonizingly motionless posture; the blackened adjustable restraining-framework fastened to his limbs and
tucked away behind him did not alleviate his growing urge to twitch
or move his muscles in some way to
resist the effects of the voluntarily enforced rigidity of his aging body.
Charles could sense that the pantomimist’s endurance was near the point of breaking. He too impatiently yearned to see the remaining minutes pass by swiftly.
“Please, just a few more minutes, Monsieur Deburau. Just a few more minutes.” Charles implored, almost whispering in a low voice.
As the last minute of that unique ‘moving-image’ daguerreotype session
came to a close, Professor Valcour
speedily clamping the covering-cap
on the specially modified and enlarged camerae obscurae, and then cheerfully called out, “It’s done, Monsieur Deburau. My most humble thanks to you.”
The long-faced 48-year-old mime immediately took in a deep breath and then slowly exhaled in both gratitude and relief.
“Ahhh – - – No one is more glad that it’s over than I,” Jean-Gaspard earnestly confessed, “No more ten-hour daguerreotype sessions for me – ever! But there is the matter of the two-hundred franc fee, Professeur. You have given me fifty francs already as a deposit – you still owe me one-hundred and fifty. Can I expect
the remaining amount this evening? Or should I wait to receive it later this week?”
Professor Valcour smothered a smirk
as he walked up to the talented pantomimist who was still fettered to the restraining-framework.
“I would think you would wait until
you are released from your restraints before inquiring about matters of money, Monsieur Deburau.” Charles wittingly remarked, immediately turning serious,
“but I can assure you that I am a man of my word. I will give you fifty francs that I have on me now, and would you be willing to wait until this Friday afternoon for the remainder of the agreed to amount owed you?
That way you will not only receive the final payment on a convenient
day for both of us, you will also have the privilege of viewing the
developed daguerreotype images of your poses as moving-image illusions
on one of my chronokinetoscopes!
In addition, you will also have the honor of being introduced to Monsieur Louis Daguerre
who has informed me that he will pay me a visit this Friday afternoon, coming over to my house at around five o’clock to personally view those unique moving-image daguerreotypes as well! What do you say to that, Monsieur Deburau? Hmmm? My wife can set an extra plate at our table for you – and she is an excellent cook.” Charles urged, eagerly awaiting an affirmative answer from the mime as he loosed him from the photographic-session restraints.
Freed from his restraining fetters, rubbing his hands and wriggling his torso to restore circulation
and to ease the stiffness in his muscles, Jean-Gaspard Deburau stayed silent, his makeup-pasted face revealing nothing to indicate how he felt about the offer.
He finally cracked a silly-looking smile and said, “Louis Daguerre, eh?
He’s an artist too. I would be honored to meet him.” Jean reached out and shook Charles’ hand, “Fifty francs now; the one-hundred remaining francs this Friday then. And please, write down your home address and the directions to get there. I do not want to lose my way.”

Friday afternoon, July/4′th; 5:22 PM; Professor Valcour’s Residence.

The clockwork-driven chronokinetoscope had been set up and the privilege of viewing the unique disk ringed with daguerreotype frames went to the 57-year-old French inventor and photographer Louis Daguerre. Upon seeing the
animated illusion his eyes bulged wide open in his puffy face, astonished to see the pioneering photographic moving-images repetitiously flickering before his eyes at around twenty-frames-per-second. All twenty daguerreotype frames were repeatedly cycled into view until the coil-spring tension gave out in the device.
For a second or two he was left speechless. Turning slowly to face
both the young professor, and then the visiting mime, Monsieur Daguerre stammered out, “This is utterly marvelous! It’s as if you have confined
Monsieur Deburau’s hand motions for all eternity onto that disk!”
Professor Valcour, forcing a grin, looking somewhat apologetic, awkwardly confessed, “It took a total of ten hours – five for actual exposure times and five for arrangement and rest intervals to photograph those twenty different poses Monsieur Deburau so graciously endured.”
Louis Daguerre, faintly hinting at disappointment, subtly nodded in empathy.
“Yes, of course you are correct: fifteen minute exposure times for each frame comes as no surprise. It is a fairly common exposure time for my invention – in this day and age. But there is the possibility that in the future, improved chemical mixtures and processes may reduce exposure times to a fraction-of-a-second. I would love to live long enough to see that day.”
Charles Valcour, cranking the coil-spring on his moving-image apparatus, restoring it to tension, paused briefly to ponder his esteemed guest’s prediction. At last his face registered an optimistic smile.
“I hold out hope that you may be correct, Monsieur Daguerre.” he cheerfully declared, completing the cranking task as he did, “It is now your turn to view the moving images of yourself, Monsieur Deburau!”
The talented mime, sans his makeup, stepped up to the device and began to observe his photographed hand poses converted into the illusion of motion. The moving daguerreotype images appeared to show him repeatedly waving to anyone having the privilege of viewing that daguerreotype disk. Jean-Gaspard observed the device for a few seconds, then stepped back; just as the coil-spring in the chronokinetoscope suddenly dropped in tension and the disk ceased turning. Unlike the openly enthusiastic response from the inventor of the daguerreotype, the pantomimist looked rather sullen.
“Is anything wrong, Monsieur Deburau?” Charles asked, expressing sincere concern. A sad smile flared up on
the mime’s expressive face.
“It’s as if I were viewing myself
waving goodbye forever to my beloved audience.” he sighed,
“Even though I am only forty-eight-years-old, I have a – sense – that I have only a short time left on this earth.” Jean-Gaspard Deburau became silently introspective. Charles Valcour and Louis Daguerre glanced at each other uneasily. The silence was broken by Professor Valcour’s wife as she called out from the kitchen entrance,
“Supper will be ready in half-an-hour,
Jacqueline will be setting the dishes and silverware soon, if you would kindly wash up.”
Charles uttered his grateful acknowledgement, and then Louis Daguerre gave Charlotte a respectful bow, adding, “Merci, Madame Valcour. Do you wish
to view the animated daguerreotype
frames for yourself?” he invitingly gestured. She cracked a polite smile and shook her head, “Merci, Monsieur Daguerre, but no, I have already viewed it – and so have my children – and Jacqueline as well.”
She turned back to the kitchen before another word was spoken by anyone.
Louis Daguerre also turned, looking over the now motionless apparatus once more.
“So I understand that you have sold
this device and the animated disk to the royal family? His Majesty Louis-Philippe has acquired it for a grandnephew of his, is that correct?”
he asked, trying to keep the conversation upbeat.
“Yes, that’s quite correct.”
The attempt to keep the conversation pleasant and flowing suddenly collapsed. The famed pantomimist standing nearby remained downcast. It was hard not to notice. The man’s somber expression had an unexpected affect on Monsieur Daguerre.
Forcing a breath, looking slightly anguished, he exclaimed, “I am not
a religious man, gentlemen, but I now wonder if the Almighty Judge has something far superior to this animated moving-image version of my daguerreotype – - – something the angels might use against us, keeping an animated record of all our indiscretions, faults and wrongs.”
Both Charles and the mime shot up eyebrows in surprise. But before they could answer, a knock came to the front-door.
“Who could that be?” Charles wondered, ‘I’m not expecting anyone else over this early Friday evening.”
The knocking continued, as Professor Valcour gently waved off
his wife and their maid, Jacqueline;
both of whom wandered out of the kitchen. Reaching the threshold of the front-door first, prudently keeping it closed momentarily, Charles loudly called out,
“Yes! Who is at the door please?”
A muffled but familiar voice was heard, “It is I, your younger brother! And I have Sylvie your sister-in-law accompanying me!”
Charles gasped and stammered out,
“Hen – Hen – Henri? Sylvie? What are you doing here in Paris? I have important visitors I’m entertaining now! I wasn’t informed that you would visit? Who is looking after your children?”
One final tap was heard against the door, “Are you going to open to us, or not, brother?” Henri-Philippe firmly
pleaded.
Speedily regaining his composure, Professor Valcour, hastily unbolted
the front-door and opened it to admit his beaming brother and his wife Sylvie.
After the salutations and greetings had been carried out between all seven adults present, Henri took Charles aside and speedily explained that their parents and Uncle Gaston’s family were looking after Pierre, Paul, Jeanette and Suzanne back in Bayeux. Sylvie
wandered up to her sister-in-law, Charlotte and offered to help her with
the preparations for supper. Charles’ wife, hiding her displeasure at the unexpected visit at such an inappropriate time and occasion, managed to graciously declined the offer.
It was Professor Valcour’s two invited guests who saved the evening: Louis Daguerre and Jean-Gaspard Deburau both decided to make a graceful and speedy exit, courteously declining to partake of the supper prepared for them to allow Charles and his wife to entertain the visiting couple instead. No additional plates needed to be set at the table.
Before departing, Louis Daguerre
invited both Henri and Sylvie to come over to his studio that weekend to have daguerreotype portraits made of the two at a generous discount. Delighted, the younger Valcour couple took up the offer.
Henri and Sylvie also accepted an invitation to see Monsieur Debarau perform at the theatre du Funambles.

less than half an hour later…

Henri and his wife found themselves distracted at the supper table by Charles’ inquisitive children.
Seven-year-old Edouard, sitting next to them asked surprisingly mature questions of the two. Gabrielle, at five-years of age was rather shy around visitors, yet she too showed
a curious interest in what the visiting couple had to say. It was three year-old Marcel who seemed to have the shortest attention span, and seemed the least interested in the visitors at the table. He wandered off from time to time.
Looking suspicious, Charles remained mostly mum for the time being, preferring to have his wife and children carrying the conversation with Henri & Sylvie. Henri sensed his brother was waiting for the opportune time to broach the subject of why the two were visiting unannounced?
“You want to know why we are visiting, brother?” he finally asked,
giving Charles a probing stare. Henri’s older brother looked unruffled, dabbing his mouth with an napkin,
almost as if he hadn’t heard the question.
“Yes, I think that would be in order,”
Charles calmly explained, “and the reason you and Sylvie are here in Paris is?”
Henri started to laugh softly, “Sylvie and I would love to see the sights of Paris. It’s our first visit! And the food and the wine in this city are renowned across Europe, are they not? Who wouldn’t want to visit?” he playfully professed, being mostly sincere.
Charles, resting his jaw on his upraised forearm, scowling in mild
annoyance, asked, “What is the – primary reason you are here unannounced, brother?” growing impatient with Henri’s diversionary verbal tactics.
Sylvie’s husband gave her a fleeting
nervous glance before he pivoted
to face his older brother, forcing himself to speak frankly.
“Our father is now sixty-two and severely afflicted with rheumatism.
Mother’s health and well-being are not much better than his. My family is growing. Uncle Gaston’s family is growing. But the income from the shop in Bayeux is no longer sufficient to support both his
family and mine. Uncle Gaston and I have come to the decision that our families in Bayeux should part. He’s decided to stay there, keep the family business going in those parts, and take care of mother and father; while Sylvie and I have made up our minds to move to Paris
to expand the family business, setting up a factory or shop somewhere around here; something perhaps even larger than what we have in Bayeux.”
Charles’ eyes darted around the table uncomfortably, “I see.” he finally
sighed out loud, “I have no problem helping you with your planned move. You and Sylvie will find Paris to your liking I’m sure. But what else do you require of me and my family? Money to help you establish the family business here? Contacts? Information? What?”
Henri thought about it for a few seconds, anxiously blurting out,
“I don’t want to put unnecessary burdens on you or your family, brother,
but any help from you would be appreciated.”
Charles hesitated, unwilling to make
a specific commitment. Charlotte leaned over and whispered in her husband’s ear, “I can write to my father in Chartres. He
is a banker you know. He can help your brother set up the business he wants to establish here.” she firmly pleaded, yet in hushed tones. Charles features softened, letting his guard down and permitting a smile.
At last he gave a gesture of approval. “Write that letter if you wish, my dear.” he meekly muttered, tenderly yielding to her wishes.
Lifting his head he raised his voice in inquisitiveness, asking, “My brother Henri! Out of curiosity, what would the name of the business be that you intend to establish here in Paris? Would you use your name? or would you use father’s name, like we do in Bayeux?”
Henri uttered a little, nervous laugh.
“Neither.” he proudly remarked, “I will name it Fabrique Valcour; Charpenterie e Travaux des Metaux. Does that sound good to you?”
Charles glanced at his wife, both silently nodding in approval.
“I’m impressed.” said Charles, “but in this day-and-age one also has to advertise! Otherwise? It will take many years, if not decades, to establish a good widespread business reputation to gain large numbers of clients and customers!” he affirmed, “And you need a good business slogan!”
Henri stammered out, “Wha – what do you have in mind for a slogan, brother?”
Charles struggled momentarily to conjure up a slogan, finally exclaiming with a broad smile, “Fort e Leger!”
Henri’s face didn’t immediately register comprehension, but at last
insight came to him; his face broadening in delight.
“Yes! I agree, brother! That’s a good slogan!” he gushed.
Pausing to take a sip of red wine, Henri took time as well to ponder the other suggestion his brother Charles made. An idea came to him.
“My dear brother? I have a plan in mind to advertise. Remember the Montgolfier brothers?”

A little over four months later; early afternoon. Paris Hippodrome.

“I don’t think this is such a good idea today.” Charles mildly protested, anxiously scanning the skies, having seen strong gusts blow up from time-to-time around midday, blowing
dust around and scattering bits of straw laying about inside the hippodrome. “We should have done this a month ago, when the weather was still fair. But now, in November?”
He shuddered a little. It wasn’t so much the obvious chill in the air, as it was the concern over the capricious
winds that troubled him.
Henri patted him on the shoulder
encouragingly, “Stop worrying, dear brother! Horses were still racing here last month, remember? And besides! It won’t be long now before the Montgolfiere starts to ascend.” he confidently declared, pointing to a smoldering pit with an enormous inflating paper globe above it located between an elongated looping horse-racing track.
A few minute later, with the creases and undulations in the hot-air balloon’s paper-fabric vanishing as rising white smoke and heated air fully inflated the envelope, it slowly began to rise.
Three hired teenagers were holding on to restraining tethers connected to a partial fish-net covering draped over the balloon as it rose.
Stenciled in large, easily-visible letters on the side of the Montgolfiere paper envelope was Henri Valcour’s company name and slogan.
“Do not let go of the tethers until
I give the order!” Henri commanded the three young men,
“The Montgolfiere must ascend high enough to clear the top of the hippodrome viewing-stands!” he affirmed, speaking loudly enough to ensure that they heard him clearly.
In obedience they let the lines slip through their hands as the balloon
reluctantly rose, coordinating their efforts to keep the orifice of the balloon’s envelope directly over the smoking pit as much as possible, as it climbed. The Mongolfiere had barely ascended over twelve meters when a sudden exceptionally strong gust of wind tore into the horse-racing grounds and slammed into the balloon. Dust, leaves and straw nearby were momentarily driven into a lashing airborne spray. Smoke from the pit
was blown into a lengthy stream
that hugged the surfaces it raced over. The force of the wind-blast yanked the tethers out of the hands of the teenagers. As the liberated balloon began drifting away, its paper
envelope almost immediately began to buckle, folding inwardly, collapsing in on itself before starting to plummet as a result of the simultaneous loss of its buoyancy and the rapid cessation of the offending wind gust.
The collapsed and torn balloon envelope fell into the viewing stands,
draping itself ignominiously over the benches there. Charles and Henri looked at each other, shaking their heads; grim smiles masking their disappointment as they briskly strode across the grounds between the racing track to retrieve their dislodged top-hats which the wind gust had carried a good distance. Picking them up, ignoring the profuse apologies coming from the three young men over their failed
tasks, concerned about keeping their employment, Henri and Charles spent a few seconds shaking off bits of dried horse-dung off the black felt on their hats before they snugged them back on their heads, maintaining a surprising air of dignity.
Charles grim smile turned into a lip-curling smirk.
“Well, Brother?” he said, “I think it’s preferable that we resort to using bills and pamphlets to give publicity
to your company, instead of – - -
trying to use something like that.”
giving a subtle gesture that hinted at the failed balloon attempt.
Henri hesitated, reluctant to let
the advertising-balloon concept go.
“What if we used light cotton fabric instead of paper for another Montgolfiere?” he protested, “And what if we braced it inside with a lightweight frame of willow or basket-reed wickerwork?”
Charles closed his eyes and firmly and slowly shook his head.
“Those ideas have some merit, but if you want to advertise your company products and services at this time, stay clear of these concepts that involve unnecessary expense and uncertain results.” he patiently explained, “Instead, let us rely on pamphlets, bills, your good reputation and word of mouth to inform the people of this city what you have to offer them. Do you agree with me, Henri?”
Charles’ younger brother, frowning with a touch of regret, grudgingly nodded.

Footnote:

Having set up his carpentry and metalwork factory in a grimy brick-building which he purchased in the south-western outskirts of Paris in the autumn of 1845, Henri-Philippe Valcour soon found himself hard-pressed keeping up with orders, so many came in; the reputation of his work having spread across the length and breadth of Paris in 1846
and continued to grow in the years following.
A curtain was raised in 1846 for one man, involving business prospects; but a curtain came down on another: a man involved in the arts.
The gloomy premonition of the
esteemed pantomomist, Monsieur Jean-Gaspard Deburau came to pass that year. He died on June, 17th.

———————————-

NEW GOALS; NEW PROSPECTS; AND ONE TO RECONCILE WITH.

Nearing 2:00 PM,Tuesday; July/12/1842.

“Advanced (eleves) Artillery School & Grounds” in Chalons-en-Champagne; over 150 kilometers from Paris, France.

Horses tied up nearby were violently straining at their leashes, a look of terror in their eyes, wailing and screeching in fright as they beheld a flimsy-looking wheeled vehicle being pushed by a handful of soldiers onto a flat hard-packed stretch of linear road on the grounds of the military
facility. It wasn’t the first time those terrified horses had seen the odd-looking
skeletal metal-framed conveyance mounting
what looked like a dumpy metal barrel near its backside conjoined by a pair of tubes to a rearward-facing metal bowl fused to a truncated cone; all of it braced and fastened to the horseless carriage’s chassis. There were also rods, and some other fixtures, protruding from that portly assemblage in the vehicle’s hind parts.

Hundreds of soldiers, officers, one civil servant, and one representative from the French Navy were on hand to witness its encore performance that day. Professor Valcour and a handful of soldiers and officers had carried out a rather restrained and limited demonstration of its capabilities the day before, yet even that initially inhibited test-run on Monday was enough to terrify both men and horses nearby who witnessed it.

Showing no concern for the passing commotion that his invention caused the day before, the professor vigorously pushed the preparations for the full-duration run of his exotic wheeled
craft. He had twelve kilograms of 66-percent concentrate nitric acid, “nitrous acid” as he called it, loaded into the machine’s oxidizer-tank; and he put four kilograms of 190-proof “wood-spirits”, methanol, into the fuel-tank. Then bringing over materials he was increasingly acquainted with: a block of limestone and a compatible quantity of 33-percent concentrate hydrochloric acid, “muriatic acid” as it was then called; he separately loaded them into an adjoining pressurizing compartment.

With just minutes to go, three French Army volunteers, two of them armed with breach-loaded needle guns, scrambled up into the vehicle, taking up their positions. Two sloped iron sheet-metal shields were mounted up front for their benefit and for demonstration purposes.
As a final touch, a wired electric-arc device, with a projecting magnesium-based pyrotechnic stick attached, was temporarily clipped to the lip of the metal cone.

As the ground crew prudently dispersed to safe locations, taking time to temporarily insert waxed cloth-plugs into their ears, Charles Valcour awaited a hand signal from one of the three volunteers
in the horseless carriage as he prepared to immediately touch two wires to each other; dry-cloth bound wires hooked up to a set of electric batteries nearby forming an incomplete series-circuit at that moment.

As he waited he diligently kept an eye on one of the volunteers, observing him through a protective double-glass screen repetitively hand cranking and drawing out a screw-threaded cylindrical stopper
out of the side of the ribbed metal barrel.
Once that task was completed, the young soldier began to do some observations of his own: carefully eying a protruding, shifting metal strip on the barrel, which happened to be the “fixed air” pressure indicator.

The young professor was hunkered down behind an temporary rampart off to one side and not too far from the vehicle, well aware of the potential hazards posed by his invention, when he saw the man wave. That was it! Charles touched the two wires together and blindingly bright bluish-white light flared up at the mouth of the conical device, followed almost immediately by a much larger reddish-orange eruption accompanied by
a rapidly billowing mass of pale-brownish smoke spewing out. All of that was promptly superseded by a bright orange flaming geyser shooting out the mouth of the wrought-iron cone. The deafening roar rattled and cracked windows hundreds of meters away. The hundreds of observers present, most of them covering their ears, found themselves awestruck.
Professor Valcour’s protective double-glass screen, with its sandwiched gelatin layer, remained largely unscathed thanks in part to the rampart’s own shock-absorbing properties.

The novel horseless carriage, violently spewing flame and smoke out its backside, was first slowly propelled forward, then it relentlessly picked up speed as the precious seconds passed. And finally, as the last of its liquid rocket-fuel was spent, its speed matched that of a race horse as it rattled down the lengthy stretch of road trailing flame and a long evil-looking plume of pale reddish-brown smoke. It had covered a distance of close to 150 meters in just over 18 seconds. As the rocket motor died, still emitting some noxious fumes, the vehicle continued coasting along in more-or-less a straight line, steadily losing speed, until it had covered a distance of over 200 meters from start to finish.

Creaking to a halt, its volunteer tillerman
having braked the conveyance, the then immobile vehicle became an instant makeshift sharpshooter’s platform.The two riflemen on board took careful aim from their protective prone positions and fired off two quick shots; their experimental Pauly needle guns sending two acorn-shaped rifle bullets tearing into
two separate wood-framed canvas targets, less than 200-meters-away. The canvas were painted with images representing two scarlet-tunic attired army generals. Professor Valcour could see the targets quiver slightly from the bullet impacts, followed almost immediately by the ‘cracking’ sounds of the gunfire; and then hearing the faint ‘thuds’ of the targets being struck.
He turned and observed two senior-ranking French Army officers smartly approaching his location. The older officer was a colonel in the artillery, the younger one was a commandant in the cuirassiers. Behind them, most of the rank-and-file soldiers present were speedily hustled and harried into lines & formations by barked-out orders from their superiors who then promptly marched them off towards the nearby barracks. Most of the commissioned army officers however, accompanied by a visiting civil servant from Paris, along with the navy officer, began to make their way over to Professor Valcour.
The commandant, stiffly marching up in his squeaking knee-high black leather boots, wasn’t too pleased at having to approach Charles dismounted, his tied-up steed still extremely agitated as a result of the fiery deafeningly loud demonstration; as were the other heavy-cavalry horses at their posts. He hid his displeasure though. The colonel’s face revealed only a little more emotion than his colleague: his broad graying mustache masking a faintly skeptical frown. The two came to an abrupt halt, standing side-by-side, and promptly saluted the professor. Charles, smiling triumphantly, doffed his shiny black top-hat.
“Bonjour, Colonel! Bonjour, Commandant!
You do not have to salute me, I’m a civilian now. But I do hope that you two have enjoyed seeing the successful results of my labor.”
The look on their faces remained unchanged.
“Bonjour, Professeur.” they politely called out. The colonel, speaking for both of them, added, “The experimental technological exercise of yours appears to have gone well. May we go over together and examine your invention, if it is safe to do so?” Charles’ face brightened in approval, “Of course, gentlemen! Please follow me.”
Charles Valcour leisurely escorted the two senior army commanders over to his rocket-propelled carriage while giving out a self-promoting lecture and narrative to the two as he did. Arriving on the scene the two senior officers and the professor were met by the three junior-ranking army volunteers who hastily snapped to attention, saluting their superiors who returned the gestures and began to question the three brave young men, who were coughing, before dismissing them.
By then, the small crowd of enthusiastic junior officers began to arrive at and congregate around the idle vehicle as well.
“I wouldn’t touch the metal cone, Commandant, it is still searing hot.”
Charles Valcour warned, seeing the senior-ranking cuirassier leaning closer to the rocket-motor, about to extend his hand to touch the outside of the nozzle. He wisely drew it back before any contact was made.
The commandant stepped back, ignoring a developing eye and throat irritation, pulling out his sabre and used it as an ad hoc probing instrument to physically examine the inactive motor. The blade on his weapon scraped off some of the carbon deliberately fused to the inside of the metal cone and bowl that made up the nozzle.
Satisfied with his casual probing efforts,
the officer slipped his side arm back into its sheathe. Charles was eagerly standing by to answer any of his questions.
“Professeur?” he asked, “This carbon encrustation appears to be over a centimeter in thickness. I gather that it was baked or burnt on, eh? Was it meant to protect the iron cone from the acid?”
Charles cleared his throat coughing, some lingering fumes and smoke proving a persistent irritant to him and others nearby. “It’s about two centimeters thick,” he finally explained, “I heated layers of cornstarch until it was thoroughly charred
and blackened, keeping the thickness of it as evenly distributed throughout the interior as possible. But the reason I applied it had more to do with protecting the iron from the intense heat than from the acid. The unprotected iron rocket-nozzle would have started to soften, even melt, were it not for the carbon layering. Elemental carbon doesn’t melt, even at temperatures high enough to cause platinum to ooze. And as a basic rule, carbon conducts heat ten times slower than metal more-or-less.”
The colonel stepped into the conversation.
“I can attest to the value of the encrusted carbon and to this new rocket-motor design of his, Commandant Sauve!” the colonel interjected, “I witnessed one of the first perilous experiments carried out by our distinguished professeur here about five months ago when he used a similar – apparatus, but with some important differences.
He used a clamped-down bare iron cone
as a rocket-nozzle with no hemispheric bowl at its frustum. The apex – the tip of that cone melted and was blasted away in a shower of white-hot metal. An explosion in the fuel-line and tank followed. Fortunately, no one was injured.” Looking chagrined, Professor Valcour remained silent.
The commandant, ignoring both men, continued to closely examine the rocket-motor.
“Well, the protection offered by the encrusted carbon was not totally sufficient it appears.” he pointed out, casually gesturing to the outside of the nozzle,
“You can see what appears to be warping and minor buckling on the outside of the cone. And inside? The carbon crust is cracked in places. And of course the bluish streaks in places.”
Professor Valcour flashed a smile at him,
“It maybe a liability for rocket-motor operations of longer duration, but it is not an insurmountable problem for this motor, I assure you, Commandant.”
Charles received a tap on his shoulder,
the colonel beckoning him to take a look at
something that interested him pertaining to the rocket-propelled carriage.
“Professeur Valcour? This is most fascinating. The carriage platform looks like it’s made of numerous undulating strips of iron soldered together. It resembles a honeycomb. I can see that it has remarkable lightness and strength combined.” he enthused, giving the honeycomb-like metal frame a vigorous jostle with both his gloved hands.
“I must correct you, my dear Colonel,”
Charles cautiously retorted, “the wrought-iron strips have been – welded
together, not soldered where they contact. I patented the electric-arc welding technique that I used on it last year, along with a separate patent for the material and devices required. Welding makes a much stronger bond than does soldering.”
Suddenly, Charles felt flat metal tapping on his shoulder. Startled, he spun around to see the flat of the commandant’s redrawn saber carefully be retracted; the blade returning to its sheathe.
“I must ask a further question of you, Professeur Valcour, he vaguely
pleaded, “Have you calculated or measured the force applied by this propulsion device?”
The young professor nodded then pointed towards a distant, sturdy wood-frame structure, 100′s of meters away, partially obscured by some trees.
“As a matter of fact, I have, Commandant. Over there is a scaffold
construction made of heavy timbers. I attached this rocket-motor here a few weeks ago to one end of a horizontal bronze rack-gear installed there to measure the thrusting force – - – You can see the connecting vertical rack-gear as well! They are both connected to each other by means of a large pinion. There are lead-weights still attached to the upright rack-gear, I might add.” Charles elucidated,
“As for the results obtained? I have shown that this rocket-motor can briefly generate thrusting forces greater than one-thousand, even eleven-hundred kilogram meters per-second squared.
That’s a greater force than the weight applied by a hundred – a hundred-and-ten kilograms. Alas, as this rocket carriage demonstration has shown, the propelling forces can initially be considerable, but they tend to wane significantly for most of the combustion process,” he sighed, “and then, in the final seconds, the forces again climb, waxing greatly before being snuffed out. It’s not a
great drawback. I feel solutions will present themselves given time.”
Charles and the two senior officers had largely ignored the junior army officers
milling about, examining the peculiar vehicle for themselves; that suddenly changed. The colonel and the
commandant immediately spotted a young officer approaching, one whom they had been introduced to earlier, wearing a French Navy uniform.
The colonel and commandant received a quick and formal salute and salutation from the somewhat squat, grim-faced young man; they responded in kind. Again the colonel spoke on behalf of the two Army commanders.
“Bonjour, Ensign Bris. I do hope the Navy will find your report on this experimental effort to be of great interest. I also want to introduce you to Professeur Valcour who arranged this successful spectacle. This peculiar conveyance is his invention as well.” Charles’ features suddenly came alive again with renewed enthusiasm. He speedily tipped his hat in welcome.
“Bonjour, Ensign le Bris. I am glad I finally have opportunity today to meet with you.”
The young naval officer swiftly removed his naval officer’s cap and gave Charles a quick nodding bow.
“Bonjour, Professeur Valcour. And likewise goes for me.”
Charles invitingly patted one corner of his now-silent rocket vehicle.
“Ensign le Bris? This rocket-propelled carriage is yours to inspect as well! I’m sure the Navy will find the rocket-motor, if not the carriage, to be of interest. I must inform you that I have a family connection with the Navy. I have a younger brother, Maurice, who has in recent weeks graduated from the Ecole Navale as a newly commissioned Ensign Second-Class.”
That got the approving attention of the 25-year-old naval officer. His deep-set eyes seemed to sparkle at the news; his broad jutting chin relaxing: a hint of a smile appearing.
“I extent to him my congratulations through you. Though I have yet to meet the man, I would be his immediate superior if he and I were to find ourselves posted together on any ship in the near future,” he quipped, “I hold the rank of Ensign First-Class. Has he informed you yet what ship he may be assigned to?” he inquired, while simultaneously craning his neck to begin his examination of the rocket vehicle.
“Yes. He mentioned a ship called the – Gomer. A paddle-frigate he called it. Are you familiar with it, Ensign?”
Ensign First-Class Jean-Marie le Bris paused, looking up, nodded reluctantly,
“Yes, I know the boat. The Gomer is not a ship-of-the-line, being somewhat at – a disadvantage. As a paddle-wheel warship. an experimental vessel, its paddles are – vulnerable to cannon.” he sighed in regret.
“I see.” Charles nodded.
There was an awkward pause.
“But I do know that the Gomer
is part of the naval squadron that frequents the Caribbean.” Jean-Marie diplomatically declared, “I’m sure your younger brother will love the warm Caribbean waters with their wonderful bluish-green hues.”
Charles-Philippe started to chuckle under his breath, “I’m sure he will.”
Changing subjects, Charles asked,
“May I ask you, Ensign, what interest does the Navy have in either this rocket-motor or the carriage?”
Quietly stepping back from a close look at the dormant rocket-motor, the Ensign replied, “I am designing and intend to build
a soaring winged-carriage for naval purposes. Your rocket-motor here could be of extreme benefit when it comes to sending my proposed flying-craft to heights considerably higher than that of a ship’s crow’s nest. Did you know that from an altitude of two-hundred meters the horizon appears at a distance of fifty kilometers out at sea?…”
Professor Valcour’s eyes widened in both surprise and admiring approval. Ensign le Bris, not expecting an answer to his near-rhetorical question, continued speaking uninterrupted,
“…I and my naval superiors are also interested in purchasing one of your patented large artificial-wind tunnels to aid us in both designing modern naval vessels and to help me design a practical soaring winged-carriage.”
Charles shook his head in amazement, smiling thoughtfully.
“Here I designed and tested a rocket-carriage, assuming that the Army might prefer it to that of a rocket-propelled flying-craft I had planned,” he confessed, “and now I find the Navy has expressed
interest in designing and building a rocket-assisted flying-contrivance of their own. A winged-carriage, you say? Hmmm. You must be aware that an Englishman, George Cayley is nearing completion of a winged-carriage of his own which he hopes to send aloft soon?”
The young Navy officer didn’t look impressed,
“From what I understand and from what I have read, Professeur, this man Monsieur Cayley is building
a flying-craft that will only glide through the air; descending – never soaring! My proposed flying-vehicle will both soar and, after momentarily reaching its prospective height on its rocket-acquired momentum, it will begin to gently glide down to the waters below, safely depositing its airborne passenger into the water where his cork-filled vest will keep him afloat until a ship’s crew will pluck him out. So would you be interested in making a large artificial-wind tunnel for the Navy? one that would be large enough
to contain a one one-hundredth scale model-ship? not to mention its ability to test a model of my proposed winged-carriage?”
Charles-Philippe Valcour suddenly found himself momentarily distracted, surprised to see a known visitor whom he no longer regarded with warm affection. Grimacing, he hesitantly pointed a finger beyond the ensign.
“That is the man whom you should talk to about it, Ensign.” Charles listlessly indicated, showing no enthusiasm, “He shares a patent with me for the invention of the artificial-wind tunnel.”
Tersely and formally tipping his hat,
Charles impersonally addressed the visitor. “Bonjour, Monsieur Marchand.” Looking disappointed, George-Richard Marchand grunted & sighed, “Bonjour, Professeur.” uneasily doffing his hat as well. There was a distinct frostiness between the two.
Charles gave him a curt wave,
reluctantly signaling him to approach.
Having a strong sense of unease, George hesitated.
Reminding himself of his duty as a civil servant, being the only civilian present invited by the Army to witness the proceedings, George stepped up and was formally introduced to Ensign le Bris.
The two talked, George taking a liking to the young Navy officer, enjoying what he had to say; agreeing to the request made by the ensign. Paperwork would be done later; handshakes were sufficient for the time being. George-Richard Marchand also took the opportunity to mention that he had carried out scientific research on his own involving a smaller version of the artificial-wind tunnel which resulted in him discovering that doubling the rotational speed of the tunnel’s propellers required an eight-fold increase in falling lead weights fitted to the clockwork mechanism driving them. Tripling the propeller’s speed required twenty-seven times as much falling mass. George-Richard proudly announced that his first science paper based on that experiment was on the verge of being published. He had discovered that the ratios between differing velocities of any object moving through the medium of “elastic-fluid”, common air, at a constant-pressure, was dependent on the cubic ratios between the
power outputs propelling or impelling any such object to the speeds it was measured at.
Ensign First-Class le Bris was one of the first to congratulate him. Likewise the other officers present extended their felicitations upon being informed. The chill between the two estranged friends began to thaw as well…
Charles Valcour and George Marchand began to drift away from the crowd of military officers. Charles tried to conceal a grudging look of admiration for his fellow alumnus. He
was silently pleased to hear about his former fellow student’s soon-to-be published science paper. In marked contrast George looked anything but cheerful: allowing his head to bob down, doing little to hide the shame
he felt.
“You do know that an English scientist about one-hundred years ago published results on elastic-fluid resistance to moving objects like cannonballs? – Ahhh – Benjamin Robins was his name, I think?”
Professor Valcour recalled, trying to keep the conversational subject matter tame.
“That has something to do with my results?” George warily asked, puzzled, “From the little I recall of his writings, I think he gave us some rather simplistic mathematical examples of the loss of speed that objects moving by initial impulse alone through the medium he called air experienced. In my opinion he was more interested in the shape and sizes of moving objects as they related to fluid resistance than in formulating reliable mathematical equations to adequately quantify it.
Since it is sustained power, forces, motion as well as fluid resistance that are the legitimate defining factors in my experiments, I would think
Monsieur Newton, Pascal, Galileo, Bernoulli, Countess du Chatelet, and other notables would be better examples to use; not that I consider myself to be as gifted as they where.” he concluded.
Suddenly pushing aside those academic thoughts, George stopped in his tracks and let out a plaintive sigh. Looking a great deal more hurt, he yearningly asked, “Why can’t we be friends again? You know that in my heart there is great deal of hurt. I hurt because I know I did you wrong when I stayed away and kept silent at a time when I could have at least offered you verbal encouragement and public support during your work on the helicoptere and its resultant test-flight. Little did you know at that time that I secretly admired you for your resolve and courage.
I admit that this now makes me look like a coward. I want to make it up to you, Charles. Please give me that opportunity!” he pleaded.
Charles was groaning inside, fighting with his emotions. Finally he gave in.
“My friend, how can I stay angry and bitter at you?” he gently confessed at last.
The two embraced and gave each other
Gallic kisses in reconciliation.

Two weeks later, back in Paris….

“Hello, Papa!” a young eager voice cried out, unbridled glee showing on
a four-year-old boy as he rushed to the door.
Charles’ face lit up in delight as well. He flung his arms open invitingly and reached down to grab the young lad,
hoisting him up in one energetic swoop.
“Hello, Edouard! I missed you!”
While smothering him with hugs and kisses, Professor Valcour happened to spot his nearby two-year-old daughter out of the corner of his eye grinning shyly.
‘Dada!” she impishly called out.
He briskly strode over and joyfully scooped her up with his one free arm, causing her to squeal and giggle as she and her older brother were smothered by their father’s affections.
The good feelings did not last. Charles shortly spotted his wife
parking herself near the entrance-way to the kitchen, confronting him with a disapprovingly cold stare. A younger woman, humbly differential to her, wearing a
frumpy maid’s outfit, circumspectly
wandered up behind her with a towel in her hand wondering what all the commotion was about.
“You’re back!” Charlotte softly huffed, “about time too.”
Her voice revealed more than a hint of bitterness as she shot him an icy stare.
“Charles Valcour suddenly looked intensely uncomfortable, caught off guard by his wife’s obvious displeasure. He softly groaned, looking apologetic as he drifted over to his wife and planted a kiss on her cheek; she showing no hint of pleasure in it.
“I’m sorry, my dear. I wanted to be
back home last week but business interfered.” he sighed, demurely lowering his two oldest children to the floor as he did.
The two began to whine, yearning to keep their father’s affection and attention.
Their mother responded swiftly and firmly. Her back to her maid, she called out, “Jacqueline!”
The tone of her voice matching her expression.
“Yes, Madame.” her maid demurely
responded, anxiety developing.
“Please take Edouard and Gabrielle
up to their bedroom now!”
The 18-year-old female servant, giving a hasty nod, immediately complied and scurried over to them.
“Come along, children.” she breathlessly pleaded, taking each by the hand and led them out of that room and up a flight of stairs, though not without a protest from Edouard.
“Do as she says, young man!” Charlotte loudly demanded, squelching his whining but not his tears.
Charles looked somewhat grieved and anxious after the two children were shuffled away, leaving him and his wife alone in the reception room. He sensed the growing tension between them.
“This business that delayed your return,” she sniffed, “was it because the Army found your rocket carriage so appealing to them?”
Her husband flashed a look of annoyance. “Is that what this is truly all about?” he asked, his voice starting to get edgy, “Is it because I didn’t yield to your pacifist viewpoint when I made the decision to avail myself of the Army’s resources and facilities to help make this project a reality?! Is that it?! Is that the reason?!”
In his emerging pique he started to
gesticulate sharply. Charlotte’s
face flushed in anger.
“NO!! That’s NOT the primary reason!” she shot back, “YES! I DESPISE the armies of this world with their bloodlust! Their glorification of war! And I don’t want you MAKING
these devilish instruments meant to kill!! But the primary reason I’m upset at you is that you have spent more days away this year than with me and the children, and you don’t even bother to write!! And when you are home, you ignore me more often than not!!” she bitterly screeched, tears starting to form.
He threw up his hands in vexation,
angrily sighing, “Alright!! Alright!!
You’re raising your voice and will probably wake up little Marcel!!
I’ll cancel all my planned trips that would take me more than twenty kilometers outside the city and do all the experiments, tests and manufacturing work closer to home, to be closer to you and to the children, even though it means I will have to spend more of my own money on the projects I’m working on, bringing in less money to this house!! I’ll do it for you and the
children’s sake!!” he impatiently rasped out, “And furthermore I promise to arrange no more contracts with the Army from today on!! They have already ordered two of those rocket carriages! I have signed a contract last week to make two available to them; and I will keep my word!! But that’s it!! After that, no more dealings with the Army!! If that’s okay with you?!” he grumbled, sarcasm welling up, “And I suppose that in spite of the fact that my youngest brother is in the Navy, you have no desire that I help him and his fellows with some of my inventions, eh? Even though the Navy has carried out admirable science and exploration activities in peacetime over the past two centuries?” Charles Valcour glared in irritation at his wife, impatiently anticipating her answer.
“You want to help your brother and the Navy?! Some invention they could use in peacetime?! Fine! Help them!!” she angrily countered, “Don’t you think I know that the Navy has advanced science and exploration in peacetime?! And I don’t care if your work takes you away a month at a time, or maybe two or three months, I just don’t want to be IGNORED by you anymore!!”
Her disquiet and ire caused her to tremble and to shed tears uncontrollably. Charles countenance began to change: his features softening with genuine affection for his wife as he sensitively drifted over to Charlotte. He tenderly sighed and in a near whispering voice soothingly replied, “I promise never to let my work take precedence over our marriage again. I will never again ignore you nor the children.
And I promise that if I should be
away from home for any length of time in the future, and you are unable to accompany me, I will write. – - – And I will write you and the children often.”
Her grief and anger began to melt away. He put his arms around her, waited a few seconds for her to
quiet down a little more, then gave her a kiss.

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